


Probably because he wasn't tortured

by makingitwork



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kind of Caring Sherlock, M/M, Pre-Slash, Some kissing, Someone help John, as caring as he can be anyway, happy ending!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makingitwork/pseuds/makingitwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't want to admit that the reason everything is falling to hell is because John moved out.</p><p>(Don't worry, he moves back in at the end)<br/>x</p>
            </blockquote>





	Probably because he wasn't tortured

"I've disappointed you."

"Well, your powers of deduction are splendid, aren't they?" John snaps, voice weak, and Sherlock sighs, turning back to his phone. Almost bored.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. There are no such thing, and even if there were, I wouldn't be one of them." John looks at him, heart break apparent in his eyes. He picks up his coat, sliding it on, and Sherlock sneers. "Oh, now you're angry. Well, _Doctor_ might as well leave anyway, you're of no use to me, caring and blubbering over these hostages."

"Right," John's voice is small "And the only reason to spend time with people is if they can be of use to you."

"Exactly."

A small puff of exhalation, and John swallows thickly. He walks to the door, stands at the top of the stairs, but doesn't go down. His voice is soft. "I worry about you, Sherlock."

" _Please."_ Sherlock rolls his eyes, scanning the search results on his phone. Google is by far his favourite search engine. "You don't care about me. You care about your stupid little blog, and your writing by the way, is mediocre at best!" Sherlock waits for the snarky reply, John's always defending his blog, but this time, none comes. He hears instead, the gentle footsteps of a resigned man, and the click of the door at the bottom. Huh. That's a point for John, he didn't slam the door. His phone buzzes with lab results, and thoughts of John are forgotten.

The day goes by swimmingly, Sherlock goes to meet Lestrade, solves the puzzle, catches the criminal, who wasn't nearly as interesting as he thought, saves the hostages, and even gets some recognition for his genius. He comes home with a swing in his step, and bursts the door open "John- wait till you get this!" He calls "Another escapade of my brilliance!" He whirls around the kitchen corner, but Mrs Hudson is there, pouring tea. She looks troubled. "Mrs Hudson," Sherlock looks around "Where's John?"

"Moved out this afternoon, love," she says softly, pityingly. "Came around with a bag, hugged me, packed up all his stuff and said he had to leave. He said you'd understand." She touches Sherlock's arm. "That's a nice pocket watch, love,"

Sherlock looks down at her, no emotion showing on his face, and he sighs. "I won't be able to pay the rent alone, Mrs Hudson,"

"Oh dearie, that's no problem." She gestured to the envelope on the counter "John paid enough for you to stay here for another year. Bless his heart. Said he was worried about you."

Sherlock pushes away from the counter, and goes to sleep.

It's his first thought in the morning when he wakes up.

He may just be beginning to regret everything he's done. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't regret.

He wonders where John might be staying. John has friends, obviously, he's a lot better liked than Sherlock, but who is the nearest? After a quick deduction, Sherlock is knocking on the door of Lestrade's house. "John?" he asks, and Lestrade rubs his temples

"You guys had a lovers spit again?"

John isn't there. Sherlock turns on his heel and leaves. A quick knocking of other friends houses, and John isn't there. Sherlock sighs and glances at his pocket watch. It's 12:30 now, about the time John would be complaining for his lunch. He scans the diners in the area, but then dismisses all that. John's smart enough to have left the general vicinity. The pocket watch is suddenly too heavy in his hands, and he shoves it back in his pocket. That is why he doesn't get attached to people. Stupid things, emotions, always slowing you down. The rest of the day drags by slowly. And he realises he _misses_ his friend. His only friend.

"I mean, where am I going to find another Doctor who was in the army?"

Mrs Hudson laughs "Oh Sherlock, my friends son just got back from Iran, he'd gone to Cambridge Medical School before then. Just got his degree."

And so that's how Sherlock meets Charles. Charles is cold on the outside, with a firm handshake and calculating eyes. Nothing like the softness that John oozed. Sherlock deducts a few things immediately. This man is rich, comes from money, and walks with an air of pride. He's never been injured in battle. Not like John. John has that scar on his leg, small and bullet shaped, and another scar that John thinks Sherlock doesn't know about. But brunette has seen it, the silver crescent just beneath his collar bone. From his experience being tortured in Afghanistan. This man- Charles- has never been tortured, so that's probably why Sherlock doesn't like him.

Except that Mrs Hudson has lots of friends with sons, and so Sherlock meets Greg. Greg who fought in Afghanistan, was a doctor, and got tortured. He too, is gentle, like John. Smiles at all of Sherlock's deductions, and Sherlock thinks he's going to like this one, until one day the next week, Greg picks up the business card. "Doctor Watson?" He asks Sherlock, who is experimenting on a head "Is this Doctor John Watson?"

Sherlock nods, watching.

"Oh god, blimey, John," he laughs, rubbing his neck "We went to med school together, you know? Both went to fight. Same regiment. Oh god, I thought...I don't know what I thought, but he got transferred, and I hadn't heard from him." He laughs again "He's alive?" Sherlock nods, wordless, eyes guarded. But then he's tormented the entire night, Greg reminiscing about John. About how brave he was, the best shot in their entire regiment, the best doctor, with the steadiest hands, the most loyal and caring. How he'd never leave a man behind.

"Did he have any bad qualities?" Sherlock snaps, and Greg looks thoughtful

"I don't know. He was always a bit of a pushover. If you wanted him to do something, eventually he would."

Sherlock looks away. In his books, that's not a bad quality, that's a quality he admires. It means adaptable.

Sherlock finds John the next week, the small, strong man is hailing for a cab, just outside London, and Sherlock rushes up to him. Well, Sherlock doesn't _rush,_ he's an elegant man after all, but he does quicken his perfectly purposeful strides, and captures John's shoulder. John turns, and his eyes glint in the night. "Sherlock." He nods, eyes looking back out to the road for that taxi. "How are you?"

"Where have you been staying?"

"Parents."

"Your parents are dead."

"Aunt, then."

Sherlock frowns "Why wouldn't you tell me? Are you afraid I'd show up there unannounced? Because you're right. That's exactly what I would do." His eyes burn deep and brown and intense, and a cab finally pulls up beside John, who tugs open the back door, only for Sherlock to slide in the other side. Sherlock shrugs "I'll go wherever you're going. Don't think you can run away from this conversation. I would have thought an army man wouldn't be so afraid of words."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asks tiredly, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hands

Sherlock pulled out his pocket watch, pushing up beside John in a way he knows some people like. Physical contact and all that hype. He holds the gold watch between them, and the heat of John's body is soothing beside his. "You got me this pocket watch." He states, and John nods "You had to pick up a part time job to afford it. You must have spent months planning it." He swallows "I know _why_ you did it, obviously, but...I don't...John, you're smart enough to understand that I don't _feel_ what other people feel."

John closes his eyes, and from this close, Sherlock can see the curl of lashes against his cheekbone "I do know that."

"I didn't mean what I said about your blog. You know that. Your writing isn't mediocre, otherwise I wouldn't read it, would I?"

"No."

"Would you like me to apologise for something I can't change? Because I will, if that's what it takes. Do you want me to pretend I feel? Because I will. Anything you want, John, just name it. Come back."

"No I...I don't want you to do anything. You're right. You're always...right." He mumbles to the driver, to turn around, gives them Sherlock's address, and Sherlock is suddenly relieved he kicked Greg out. He has a feeling that wouldn't be very good either. "I just...I don't know, Sherlock. If you can't feel sympathy towards other human beings, then you can't feel _love_ for other human beings and-"

"You love me."

John stares at him.

"I'm not blind, John." Sherlock states with a flourished shrug "I can see it. I don't mind. I find it rather endearing."

" _Endearing."_ John spits the word "Of course."

"I'm not quite sure how you want me to rec-"

John's kissing him.

Hard.

Sherlock, for all his clever words and mocking jibes, incredible insights and brilliant deductions is silences. John's mouth is warm, and wet and...delicious. He tastes of wind and rain and _John._ Something indescribable. Sherlock doesn't respond much, but he parts his mouth a little more, lets John take whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. He wants to be what John wants. And then hands, steady hands that had held the rifle of a gun, are carding through his hair, and the sensations tingle his scalp. He should do something with his hands but- he doesn't know what! John's guiding him, telling him exactly what to do and how to melt with the curl of his tongue against his teeth. A nip to his bottom lip.

John pulls away, breathless, and Sherlock chases those lips. John leans his head back against the seat, and looks at Sherlock. "You look beautiful like that. All flushed, hair a mess." Sherlock's never been called beautiful before. He's also never kissed anyone before. He licks his lips, and can still taste John. He wonders if John can taste him. John hands the driver the money, and they step out. "All my stuff's still at my friends house. I'll have to go get it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Sherlock nods, and he doesn't know if this is what people do, or maybe they do it before they kiss, he's never had time for trivia like that. But he cards his fingers through John's, and everything is alright again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment? And maybe some prompts?  
> x


End file.
